


Nighthawks, Morningbirds

by ifishouldvanish



Series: I Must Be Warmer Now [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-20 13:39:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9493916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifishouldvanish/pseuds/ifishouldvanish
Summary: I’d like to thank everyone who nominated‘I Must Be Warmer Now’for TEAs this year! Here’s a ‘missing chapter’ (or three) that covers the rest of Gold and Lacey’s first date.Enjoying the anonymity of being outside of Storybrooke, Gold and Lacey agree to an official dinner date before heading home. However, it isn’t long before their evening is interrupted by a man who recognizes one of them, bringing old insecurities bubbling back to the surface.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of a series based on my RSS 2016 fic, [I Must Be Warmer Now](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8920411). You might want to read that first :)

“C’mon. Try a bite.” Lacey insists, holding out a forkful of the infamously cheap steak she ordered. Gold had chosen a hamburger himself, not quite feeling up to the challenge. “...S’not bad, you know.”

He scowls at the bite-sized piece of meat hesitantly.

“Cooked just right… little bit of A1…” She says to tempt him.

He can't deny that it smells surprisingly like— well, exactly what a steak _should_ smell like. The corner of his mouth tugs upwards as he decides he’ll try it after all, if for no other reason than to see her delighted reaction. Her smile widens when he opens up.

“There we go!” She chuckles, popping it into his mouth.

It's by no means the finest steak he's ever had, but it's certainly edible. He can’t help the smile that blooms across his face while he chews, and doing the two simultaneously kind of makes his cheeks hurt.

“Not half bad, right?”

He swallows. “No, not half bad. _...Maybe three-quarters.”_

She responds the same way she always does to his weak, deadpan humor: Managing to pout her lips and narrow her eyes for all of one second before cracking into a smile that warms his heart.

The tiny restaurant is quiet at this hour, the majority of conversation coming from the night crew working behind the counter, rather than the small handful of guests. Surrounded by rows of dark, closed up storefronts, the Waffle House right by I-295 is a beacon of florescent light to the weary traveler, the night owl, or in their case, the spontaneous (though admittedly not very adventurous) couple. Gold feels like they're figures in a Hopper painting, the stark lighting and retro fixtures giving the place an air of timelessness. The perfect atmosphere, he thinks, for letting the hours pass by while enjoying the company of the fascinating, beautiful, and vivacious woman sitting across from him.

“How's that burger?” She asks.

He stares down at his largely neglected plate. Truth be told, he just wasn't hungry. He'd swallowed down a plate of leftovers before he left the house, but he wasn't about to let something like that keep him from taking Lacey out for dinner. He'll take any excuse to spend more time with her, because time spent with Lacey seems to be inversely proportional to time spent feeling numb and sorry for himself. Not the healthiest thing— he's aware of that much— but he’s already begun to work on making positive changes for himself. Might as well indulge for now.

“It's good.” He nods. The two nibbles he's taken out of it were, at least.

Lacey snorts. “Like hell it is. You hardly touched it.”

“M’not hungry. I ah, already ate.”

_See?_ Honesty.

Dr Hopper would be shitting his britches if only he could see him now.

The front door knocks open and their eyes reflexively snap to see the restaurant's new guest. Gold immediately lowers his head, feeling part of himself shrivel up and die as a familiar laugh splits through the tiny restaurant.

“You gotta be fuckin’ shitting me! _Gold?!_ Is that _you?”_

Gold peers up at Lacey through his eyelashes apologetically, and she arches a confused brow as the man approaches their table.

“Well, I'll be god-damned!”

Lacey glares up at their visitor and smacks her lips. “Who uh… Who the fuck are you supposed to be?”

“Oh, I'm just a friend.” He dismisses, folding his arms over his puffed-out chest. “Isn't that right?”

“Not the word I'd use, Mr King…”

“This must be the skirt you were braggin’ to us all about, huh?” Arthur teases, giving Lacey an appraising look. “...Not bad.”

Gold narrows his eyes at the man, biting his tongue. He’s aiming for intimidating, but he can already feel his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. _By the way Lacey, I told my therapy group about you._ But he clears his throat. Now's not the time.

“Lacey. This is Arthur King. He attends the same anger management program I do.” He explains diplomatically.

She eyes the man up and down, unimpressed. “...Can we fuckin’ help you?” She snips, dropping her silverware onto her plate.

Arthur scoffs. “Ah, I get it. A mouthy one.” He winks. “Don't like ‘em that way myself, but I guess I can see the appeal. ”

Gold clears his throat again. “Miss French and I were enjoying a meal together.” He grits through his teeth. “This… _interruption_ is not pardoned.”

“Yeah. Get bent.” Lacey mutters, folding her arms over her chest and pursing her lips.

“I'd be insulted if I were you, sweetheart.” Arthur says, and Lacey blinks at him in disbelief. “Daddy Warbucks taking you _here,_ of all places? But heh— I guess it's a pawnbroker’s job to know how much everyone’s sloppy seconds are worth— isn't that right, Gold?”

Gold clenches his fist and takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “Please. Leave—”

“I’m not your sweetheart, and he's not a pawnbroker.” Lacey cuts in, holding her steak knife up threateningly. “He's an _antiquities_ dealer, _you're_ a prick, and _I'm_ about this close to shoving my foot up your ass.”

“Oh ho ho!” Arthur chuckles, “The cat’s got claws.”

“You’re damn right I do,” Lacey grits through her teeth. “Keep it up and I’ll use ‘em to gauge your fuckin’ eyes out.”

“Gold, you might wanna put a leash on this one.”

_“That’s it.”_ Lacey grunts and stabs the knife through her steak, beginning to scoot out of the booth. “He’s getting a foot up his ass.”

“Lacey— please.” Gold says softly, placing a hand over hers.

“What?!” She snaps. “He fuckin’ _deserves_ it!”

He looks into her eyes and he's pained to see them filled not with anger, but with hurt.

Arthur laughs. “You just gonna sit there and let the slag—”

“You know, Mr King—” Gold begins firmly, smacking his lips and letting out a small chuckle. “I'm sure you're fine with bullshitting your way through life, never worrying about the consequences of your actions, never stopping to think whether or not anyone gives half of a shite about what you have to say—” His brogue is thick, and a sadistic little smirk tugs his lips. “But you and I… we're very different people. Because while you insist on cocking one thing up after another for what appears to be no reason other than that you _can_ — I'm trying to _learn_ from my mistakes.” He lifts up his cane and smiles impishly at the gold handle.

“You make me angry on a _good_ day, Mr King. But now you seem to think that _Miss French_ here deserves to listen to the shite that rolls incessantly from your tongue simply because she dares to keep my company. The point is, I would love to take this cane and use it to beat the ever-loving shite out of you right now— just like I did my beloved Gallé china cabinet— but I'm not gonna do that because it's not in my best interest. You see— I have goals that involve getting my son back, and an assault and battery charge would be a rather devastating setback to that end. ...Quite frankly Mr King, you're just not worth it.”

Arthur gapes back at him, stunned into silence. No doubt he ever expected the timid and soft-spoken Mr Gold from his anger management group to have such a razor-sharp tongue.

“Now, I'll ask you again to please _leave Miss French and I alone_ to enjoy our meal in peace.”

Arthur finally manages to shut his mouth, the gears in his mind visibly turning. “...Service here sucks anyway.” He says petulantly, his high-pitched voice sounding small and weak against the heavy silence in the restaurant. He lingers for a moment, satisfied grins slowly spreading across Lacey and Gold’s faces until he spins on his heels and stomps out the way he came.

“That—” Lacey grins, “was _pretty_ badass.”

He feels his cheeks warm and smiles shyly. “I— well… he was being terribly rude to you.”

Lacey’s cheeks flush to a beautiful shade of pink and she suddenly glances away. She rubs a hand over her face and sniffles a little. “Sorry I— I gotta use the loo.” She mumbles quickly, scooting out of her seat. “I'll be right back.”

He knits his brows together as he watches her scurry away, visibly upset. “T-take as much time as you need.” He calls after her in a voice hardly above a whisper.

  
  


*****

 

Relief washes over Lacey when she finds the women’s restroom is unoccupied. She sidles in and locks the door, taking a deep breath.

She feels like an idiot.

Why is he so good to her?

She can already feel herself starting to  _fall_ for him and fuck if that isn’t a terrifying thought.

Lacey glares at her reflection in the mirror and sighs. “You need to slow the hell down right now.” She mutters to herself.

He looked terrified when that man walked in. He was a nervous wreck around her not but a few hours ago. Yet he defended her?

Gerard never did that.

His friends would come by the apartment and he’d make her feel stupid in front of them. They’d get buzzed and call her names, make lewd comments, and he’d just let them. Join in, even. She’d be on the verge of tears and he’d tell her to relax and learn to take a joke. She learned eventually that no one was going to protect her— that she needs to stand up for herself.

But after one evening together, Gold already refused to let anyone talk down to her. Demanded they treat her with respect. Her chest aches at the notion that maybe she’s already become special to him. But she crushes that silly thought as quickly as it came. It’s nothing, she reminds herself. It’s a shred of basic human decency that everyone but her seems to be worthy of, and he just doesn’t see it yet. He doesn't see _her_ yet.

She splashes some cool water from the tap over her weary eyes and dabs it dry with a paper towel. When she steps back out to return to the table, he flashes her a relieved smile.

“Everything alright?” He asks.

She doesn't answer, nor does she sit down. Everything is not alright, but he seems to understand and gives her an apologetic look.

“I'm… not hungry. Anymore, either.” She says weakly, not quite meeting his eyes.

“Of course. I'll just—” he pins the check under his fingers and reads the total. He promptly drops a handful of bills onto the table and scoots out of the booth. “To the car, then.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild smut?

Lacey pulls her eyes from the passenger window to look at Gold, and folds her arms over her chest. She's pretty sure it's coming off as more sulky than indignant however, because she feels so small. It had been a while since anyone got under her skin like this, and that asshole Arthur did it in no time at all. So much for not giving a damn.

“What did he mean?” She mumbles.

“...In regard to what?”

“He said that you were bragging about me.”

“Oh.” Gold chuckles. The light from the street passes over his face as they drive, giving her a glimpse of the small smile there. “Dr Hopper— our facilitator— asked me to share something with the group on Friday.” He says. “So I told everyone that I went to the bar and was approached by a fascinating young woman who helped me to see things differently.”

“That all?” She asks meekly.

“No. I also told them that I enjoyed her company very much and hoped to talk to her again.”

“You… you didn’t tell them that we—”

“No, no…” He assures softly. He then blanches when her meaning sinks in. “Of course not! Lacey I—”

“Are you embarrassed of me?”

His eyes dart off of the road for a moment to give her a puzzled look. “...No! Why would you think that?!”

“Most guys are.” She admits with a shrug. It's been true of her experience since returning to Storybrooke. There's no shortage of men seeking her out for some comfort at night, and she knows some of them go as far as bragging about it to their friends. But in the end, nobody wants to actually be _seen_ with her.

“Lacey, I-I-I—” Gold stammers and returns his focus to the road. “I enjoyed the time we spent together. Truly.”

“Everyone else _enjoys_ me too. Doesn't mean they're proud of it or that it means anything.”

Lacey notices his knuckles tightening around the wheel. “I don't know that... _proud_ is the word I'd use.” He says uncomfortably. “But it did mean something. To me. _This_ means something to me.”

She chews her thumbnail and looks out the window. Scoffs. “Of course it does. You haven't gotten any action in six years.”

Lacey isn't exactly expecting a snappy reply, but still finds herself discomfited when one never comes, leaving her cold words hanging heavily over the silence in the car.

She sighs and looks back at him. Light passes over his features again, which are now pinched into a stoic facade. She can see past it though, and underneath it all he looks so hurt. She just doesn't know what to make of anyone showing her kindness and vulnerability.

“I'm… Sorry. That wasn't cool, I— I didn't mean that.”

He remains quiet and she needs to fill the silence with something.

“You just— You didn't have to cut in like that.” She says. “I can stand up for myself.”

“Lacey, that man is _my_ problem. Not yours.”

She rolls her eyes. “I'm sorry—” she snorts, “did I miss the part where he called _you_ a mouthy slag who needs to be put on a leash?”

“No…” Gold sighs and tightens his grip on the steering wheel. “Just that he and I… we have a sort of history, and I'd rather you not get involved.”

“Bullshit.” Lacey straightens her back and stares at the road ahead. “You've been seeing him an hour a week for what? Six months? History my ass.”

“Fine.” He grunts. “Not him. Men _like_ him.”

Lacey laughs humorlessly. “And you think I _don't_ have a history with assholes?”

“God dammit!” He slams his fist against the steering wheel in frustration. “He reminds me of my father, alright?!”

The car falls silent again, save for Gold's heavy breaths as he simmers down.

“I-I'm sorry.” He stammers. “He just— Every week, I have to listen to that bastard and it's like… I'm back in that flat in Glasgae with _him_. I just… I needed to say those things, alright? I-I needed to have that much.”

Lacey watches him ease into his seat as the weight of his confession lifts away. “...Okay.” She says, the word coming out as a whisper. “I get it.”

She does, truly. She's lost count of how many men she's kicked and screamed at, using them as surrogates for the real thing. For Gerard and all of his asshole, piece of shit friends. She can't imagine Gold gets half as many chances at that kind of catharsis, nor can she imagine having to spend time every week grouped with someone who reminds her of her abuser. Being encouraged to sympathize with and relate to them. Being told you're not so different from them. That you're there together because you have something in common.

“He deserved worse.” She adds quietly.

“Well, like I said. Getting my son back is more important to me than… retribution.” He says, and his shoulders slouch a little. “It _has_ to be.”

Lacey feels something grip her chest that she supposes could best be described as shame. It's easy for her to be reckless, to not really think about the consequences, because what does she have to lose? Certainly not a child. It's an uncomfortable train of thought, that his problems aren't quite as simple as she made them sound last week, and she doesn't want to dwell on it a second longer.

“I was serious about the foot up the ass, you know.”

With a delayed reaction, Gold scoffs. “I don't doubt that.”

“Seriously. I got no problem spending a night in jail for punching an asshole.” She shrugs. “Just say the word. Call it a public service.”

She catches him smiling, and she can feel the shame in her gut being washed away.

Gold takes a deep breath and sighs. “...I like you, Lacey.” He says softly. “So much already that it terrifies me.”

The thought that he's just as fucked up and confused about this as she is is a mild comfort. “...Me too.”

He takes a hand off the wheel and rests it over the center console. His fingers seem to twitch a little the longer she stares at it there and she realizes he's offering it to her. She slowly laces her fingers in his and he squeezes ever so slightly.

Their hands are still entwined by the time they make it back to Storybrooke. He makes a right onto 3rd and she stirs.

“Where are we—” she shakes her head and wriggles her hand from his. “I thought we were going to your place.”

“We were.” He says. “But— we… you seemed upset?”

“I'm fine.”

“I just thought—”

“Well, you were wrong.” She says. “I'm fine. We can go to your place. I—” She pauses lets out a sigh. “I’m sorry for being a bitch. ...I still wanna to go home with you,” she admits reluctantly, “assuming you aren't tired of me yet.”

“Not at all.” He smiles weakly at her and nods. “I… I apologize for snapping. But, I'd like that.”

  


*****

  


Lacey’s eyes go wide with awe as Gold invites her into his oversized Victorian. “ _Shit._ You live here all by—” She catches herself and swallows rest of the question.

“...Aye.” He answers dejectedly anyway, shedding his jacket and hanging it on the coat rack.

“It's… it’s really nice?” She offers, stepping into the sitting room and admiring the furniture, the abandoned game of chess, and the shelves full of books and porcelain figurines. “You um, you have a lovely home.” She says, the words falling from her tongue clumsily. It's what you're supposed to say when you visit someone's house for the first time, isn't it? She supposes that if anything, it's a massive understatement.

“...Thank you.” He says with a curt nod.

He glances around the room for a moment as though he hasn't actually _looked_ at it in some time. The house is silent save for the ticking and tocking of a grandfather clock on the far wall, and Lacey recalls the loneliness he described to her the other night. She feels a sadness, imagining him sitting in this room all by himself, day after day, with nothing but the ticking and tocking to keep him company.

Gold presses his lips into a thin line for a moment and shakes his head. “I ah… seem to remember promising you some wine?” He says, putting on a friendly smile and gesturing toward what must be the kitchen.

Lacey follows him closely behind, still taking in her surroundings. Gerard's apartment was big and expensive, but it was also cold and sterile. Gold's home is a work of art; full of beautiful antique pieces that have clearly been chosen by him personally rather than ordered straight from a catalog. She feels like she has no business being in this house. Like a stray animal that has wandered in and is going to be shooed out at any minute.

“What do you like?” He asks, nodding at the massive wine cooler. “Red? White? Rose?”

“I—” Lacey blinks owlishly at it. It must hold about a hundred bottles. “What do you recommend?”

A little smirk tugs at his lips and he approaches the unit. “A cabernet sauvignon ought to pair nicely with that steak.” He says with a humored lilt to his voice, opening the door and sliding a bottle out.

“Sounds good to me.” Lacey shrugs. She watches as he carries the bottle to the counter and retrieves two glasses. He pours not much more than a splash into each one, then carries them over with a smile.

“Try that,” he nods, handing her a glass.

She draws the glass to her lips and hesitates. “Now, when you say _try—_ ”

“You can swallow it.” He chuckles. “Though you’re welcome to spit it out as well. ...I won’t be insulted.” He winks, taking a swig and giving a little hum of approval before swallowing.

Lacey empties her glass and swirls the wine around in her mouth.

It's disgusting.

She immediately spits it back out and scowls, shaking her head.

His eyes are wide with concern for a fleeting moment before he eases into an amused little smirk. “...Not a fan?”

“Sorry, that’s—” She rakes her teeth over her tongue, trying to scrape the unpleasant taste from it. “No.”

He chuckles and takes the glass from her. “We’ll just have to try another, won’t we?” He says, flashing her an understanding smile.

“They can only get better than whatever the hell _that_ was,” she says as he steps away to rinse their glasses in the sink.

“I admit, I’m not much of a wine drinker myself,” he says. “Much prefer my scotch.”

Folding her arms over her chest, Lacey stares into the cooler and scowls. “Then why have all this? Why not just load it with fuckin’ whiskey?”

“Because—” He glances over his shoulder at her, eyes narrowed while a little smirk tugs at his lips. _“Come over and try some wine_ sounds much more romantic than _come over and try some hard liquor.”_ He says, stepping beside her.

“It’d work on me.” She says flatly.

“Well, you’re here _now,_ aren’t you?” He says, peering through the cooler again.

“Not for the wine.”

_“Miss French!_ What are you trying to say?” He teases.

She looks at him, tracing her tongue along her lip, and is satisfied to see him blushing. He quickly looks back at the cooler with unwarranted focus for a moment and gives a small cough.

“Well then, how about this?” He says, sliding out a bottle with a light salmon color to it. “Provence Rose? Crisp, dry, versatile. Fruity notes.”

“Sure.” Lacey shrugs, but she can't help smiling at how adorable he is. He’s so small and refined and gentle and nothing like Gerard or Keith or pretty much any of the other men she’s ever been with, and she can hardly imagine him ever losing his temper and destroying anything in this house.

That's when she notices it: the empty china cabinet that's had its glass panes knocked out.

“I really think you’ll enjoy this one—” Gold says, holding out her glass. He seems to catch her gaze, and follows it to the china cabinet. “...Aye.” He mumbles, looking away in shame. “That’s... The one.”

She promptly takes a swig of her wine, not wanting to upset him by dwelling on the topic of his little transgression. “S’good.” She nods. “I like it.”

He gives her a smile that's equal parts pleased and relieved and takes the glass back. “Good. I’m glad.” He says, walking back to rinse the glasses again.

“So uh… just like, out of curiosity...” Lacey begins, fumbling her hands and stepping up to the cooler. “Which of these did you blow the most cheddar on?”

Gold scoffs. “Hm. That would be the 2005 Château Pétrus, I believe. Four grand.”

_“Christ!”_ She hikes her brows until the sticker shock wears off. After a beat, she looks over her shoulder at him. “...Is it any good?”

“Haven’t opened it yet.” He says with a shrug and walks over. He lets out a huff and reaches into the cooler again, pulling out the Pétrus. “Was saving it for a special occasion, I guess.” He sighs, studying the bottle for a long moment.

Lacey imagines most of this wine was bought for his ex-wife, rather than himself. He's frowning at the bottle, a sort of symbol of the potential his life must have once had, that has since been foreclosed on. But then a faint smile begins to shape his lips.

“...Wedding anniversary, perhaps.” He jokes, but Lacey doesn't laugh. He lets out a scoff and looks up at her with a mischievous grin. “...Would you like to try it?”

Lacey gives him what she's certain is a deer in the headlights look. As curious as she is to find out what a four grand bottle of wine tastes like, she knows she isn't worthy of it. That he'll regret opening it and wasting it on _her_ of all people. “Um… no,” she says, shaking her head, “that’s okay.”

“...C’mon.” He winks. He leans in and slips into a whisper, as if to share a secret. “We’ll toast to something.”

Lacey's skin tingles at his nearness. Nothing about the goofy smile on his face indicates that he's trying to be suave, but he's affecting her regardless and for the first time in too long, she isn’t sure how she feels about it. The thought of sleeping with him again is making her stomach churn with doubt. Not doubt that she _wants_ to, but whether or not she _should._ “I don’t know.” She mumbles. “I mean, you should um, save it. For a special occasion.”

He frowns and studies the bottle again, knitting his brows in consideration. A smile slowly creeps back to his face and he meets her gaze again. “There's ah... no occasion more special than enjoying good company, aye?”

Lacey chuckles uncomfortably. It's the nicest thing anybody's said to her in ages and the realization makes her feel so pathetic. _Her company is good and special and worth celebrating._ She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, immediately putting it back when she decides she feels too exposed by its absence. “Yeah, I uh, guess you’re right.”

“Excellent.” He nods and saunters off to the counter again with the bottle. “Come, Miss French. You’re going to help me do the honors.”

He pulls a knife from the drawer and swiftly tears the foil off, then twists the corkscrew through. He holds it out to her and gives her an expectant look, inviting her to fold down the levers. She hesitates, but then she remembers what he told her the night she took him home. That all the finery in his home is about his family— affording comfort and luxury to the people he cares about— and he wants to share it with _her._

She smiles and pushes the little arms down, unsatisfied when the auger only pulls the cork out halfway.

“Thank you, Miss French.” He says with a little bow before wriggling the cork out the rest of the way with a _pop_. “You've been a lovely and most invaluable assistant.”

She huffs out a laugh at his corny joke and watches as he pours their glasses again. Their fingers touch as she accepts hers from him and he clears his throat. “To good company?”

Lacey nods and clinks their glasses. “To good company.” She says with her best smile.

They empty their glasses, each watching for the other’s reaction. His brows knit together adorably as he tastes it properly, but Lacey doesn’t feel like it tastes much different from the shit they keep on the bottom shelf at Price Rite _._ He shrugs and swallows, and she follows suit.

“It’s… good.” She says, more to be polite than anything else. She used to buy the shit on the bottom shelf quite often, after all.

“Hm.” He nods in agreement, seeming only mildly impressed himself. It’s a small relief, knowing she isn’t exactly missing out.

“But—” She nibbles her lip and studies his features for a moment.

He raises a brow. “But...?”

Lacey sets her glass down and traces her tongue along her bottom lip. She slides a hand over his shoulder and steps closer to him. She brushes her lips against his once— twice, before he parts for her and she can taste the wine on his tongue and it's so much sweeter that way. He rests a hand on her waist, squeezing gently before roving around to her back and pulling her closer. She sips every last drop she can from his lips before pulling away and leaving him with a dopey smile on his face.

“...It tastes even better from your mouth.” She says.

His grin widens, growing ever more lopsided. “Does it, now?”

She nods, biting back a smile.

“Well…” He brushes his fingers across her cheek and his eyes dance over her face with such warmth. “Not to challenge your connoisseurship, but I'd like to try that for myself.”

She nods and he returns the favor, and he's so gentle, always so gentle. Her heart flutters in her chest and she has to remind herself to slow down again. Remind herself not to fall too far too fast. She pulls away sooner than she would have liked and shakes her head.

“I'm— I'm pretty tired.” She says, rubbing a hand over her eyes. “I think I'm ready to crash.”

He blinks at the premature ending of their kiss and nods. “...Aye. It’s late, isn't it?” He says, clumsily beginning to recork all of the bottles. “There's a bathroom upstairs— first door on the left— if you care to wash up. I'll ah, find you something to change into?”

  
  


*****

  


Gold's admittedly a little relieved when she settles into his bed right away. He wasn't sure if she'd want to sleep in his room or one of the guest rooms and he was anxious and unsure over how to ask without coming off as too forward. Or too cold. Too _something_ — he doesn't know. He just didn't want her to think he was expecting anything, nor did he want her to feel unwelcome.

“Thanks for— I don't know,” she mumbles as he settles beside her. “I had fun. …Even though that douchebag ruined our dinner and I was a bitch on the way home.”

He’s not really sure what to say to that. All things considered, he thinks their evening recovered pretty nicely. And while she had hurt him during the drive home, he understood she was hurt herself. He settles for giving her a kiss on the shoulder and a simple, “Thank you for inviting me.”

He tries to keep his distance from her at first. But her body is quivering and within fifteen minutes, he finds himself spooned up behind her, sharing his warmth.

“Cold?” He asks in a whisper. “I can get you another—”

“No.” She clips.

“Are you sure? You're shaking—”

“I just wanna fuck.” She says. “At least, my body does.”

“But... _you_ don't want to?”

“I don't know.” She says, fidgeting under the covers. “I don't know how to sleep next to someone without _fucking_ them first.” She mutters sourly. “That's the kind of girl I am, alright?”

He rolls away from her, trying not to pull the covers off of her in the process. “You don't have to sleep with me. I can set you up in one of the guest rooms? I-I can drive you home?”

“No.” She shakes her head and shivers. “I don't wanna sleep alone.”

“Alright.” He sighs, spooning back up to her, enveloping her. “Then you won't.”

She continues to tremble and shake in his arms and he can't stand the thought of her being like this all night. He perfectly understands why she might not want to have sex. He can't blame her after the daunting implications of what she told him in the car. He’s not sure he wants to either. But gods, he just wants her to feel relaxed and warm and safe.

After a moment of hesitation, he presses a kiss to her shoulder and tentatively drags his hand across her abdomen. She squirms and presses her thighs together in response.

“Please, let me.” He offers softly. “...If you don't—”

Lacey lets out a sigh. “...okay.” She mumbles a little reluctantly, starting to roll onto her back for him.

“No, no.” He stops her with a light touch. “You're fine. Just—” He slides his hand between her thighs, finding her warm and wet. “Let me…”

She sighs heavily as he begins stroking her, then inhales sharply when he tucks his hand into her underwear. He combs his fingers through her curls and she shifts a little so she can spread her thighs for him. He pulls himself closer, wrapping himself around her almost protectively.

Lacey’s eyes are on him, studying his face while he uses his fingers to tease and spread her folds. But in his calm, focused state, he can't bring himself to feel self-conscious about it. He slips a finger inside of her and she gasps.

“Alright?” He asks.

She nods and cants her hips into his touch. He plants another kiss to her shoulder and adds another finger, slowly pumping into her. She responds immediately, squirming into him and letting out a stifled moan.

The string of gasps and moans coming from her lips intensifies, and the rolling of her hips quickens. He rests his thumb against her hood, gradually applying pressure to her bud until her body suddenly tightens in his arms.

“That's it,” he whispers and kisses her again, “I've got you…” He continues working over her most sensitive places and she whimpers as each wave of residual tension escapes her body.

He peppers her shoulder with soft kisses as she relaxes, melting back against him with a satiated little moan.

“Better?” He asks, slipping out of her and wiping his fingers along the hem of the shirt he gave her.

She nods and quickly moves to touch him through his bottoms.

“No, no.” He tuts softly, guiding her hand away. “You don't have to— Just go to sleep, lass.”

She mumbles something he can't make out and settles comfortably against him, drifting almost instantly to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: The morning after
> 
> Chapter three will be up in a day or two :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some unresolved feelings result in a bit of a meltdown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update :x  
> (Everybody knows a day or two in fic-writing time is actually like, a week, right?)

Lacey French sleeping in one of his shirts is one of the most welcome sights Gold has ever woken up to. Her makeup from last night is smudged all over her cheeks and his pillowcase, her hair looks like a nest, and having her spend the night in his bed probably wasn't the best thing for this budding _whatever it is_ between them— but it just feels so good to wake up and not be _alone._ To wake up next to someone who hasn't been sleeping with another man for five years. Next to someone who, for some ungodly reason, seems to actually like him and desire him.

Gods, he is going to fuck this up. How can he _not_ fuck this up?

He scoffs. How presumptuous of him: Assuming there _is_ anything _to_ fuck up.

Lacey stirs and a little groan escapes her. Her eyes quickly flutter open and she already looks much more wakeful than he feels. “Hey.”

He smiles at her, convinced that if he were to reach out and touch her, she might disappear. “...Hey.”

“You're awake now.” She says, stretching her arms out and squirming up to him.

His smile widens. “I'm sorry. Did I keep you waiting?” He sneaks a glance at the alarm clock because seriously— _did he?_ But it’s hardly a quarter past seven.

“Well, as a matter of fact…” She mumbles, leaning over and nuzzling his neck. “Yeah. You kinda did.”

“How… Terribly rude of me.” He hums. Lacey's hair falls onto his chest and in his face, and it still smells like berries and honeysuckle. She buries her face in his neck and starts kissing, or licking, or— _biting?_

_“Ah!”_ He winces because _that_ was definitely a bite, and the sharp sensation already has his cock beginning to stir. Files that particular bit of information away to consider later.

“Yeah,” She perks up with a giggle and nibbles her lip. “You could uh, make it up to me though?”

He gives her a lopsided grin. “And which of your _wildest erotic fantasies_ might I be able to fulfill for you this morning?”

She studies him for a moment and fights back a smile. “You ever watch Highlander?”

He groans and rolls his eyes.

“I'm kidding! I'm kidding!” She laughs, swatting a hand at his shoulder and straddling over his lap. “...I just want your cock inside me again.”

For a second, he just blinks at her. Lacey is nothing, if not forward.

_“...Oh.”_ He chuckles a little uncomfortably. Gold won't deny that he finds the prospect of being inside her again to be a very appealing one, but her enthusiasm this morning is a jarring contrast from last night and he's a bit skeptical. Nonetheless, she seems nothing short of eager now and he’s come to find that her moods are subject to turning on a dime. “Well,” he says, “I believe _that_ could be arranged.”

“I thought so.” She shrugs, already beginning to grind her hips into him, working him up. “I was gonna wake you up with some head, but I figured you'd probably freak out on me again.”

He recalls his reaction in the car the last night and huffs out a laugh. “How considerate of you.”

“Mhmm.” She nods, stripping out of his shirt. She slides it off of her shoulders and carelessly tosses it on the floor. “I can be very considerate when I want to be.”

He lets out a groan and closes his eyes as she continues rubbing against him through his pajamas. _God,_ it feels so good to be wanted. He reaches over to open the top drawer of the nightstand and fumbles inside for a condom.

His heart stops when he remembers he has none. Why would he? He hasn't gotten properly laid in six years.

He clears his throat. “Lacey.”

“...Yeah?”

“I don't… _I don't have any protection.”_ He mumbles quickly in embarrassment.

She stops rolling her hips and frowns for a moment. “That's… okay? I mean— I'm like, clean, you know?”

“Lacey.”

“You can just pull out.” She shrugs. “I trust you.”

He rubs a hand over his face and sighs. “I'm glad _you_ do, but I don't.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“I'm sorry.”

“No, it’s cool.” She says, belied by her slouching shoulders.

“...Raincheck?” He offers weakly.

Lacey smiles and leans down over him.  “I didn't think Mr Gold _did_ rainchecks.” She teases. “That's like… requesting an extension— How do I know you're good for it?”

“Ah—” He smirks and holds up a finger. “Because _I_ never back out of a deal.” He taps her nose, delighted when she goes cross-eyed and it scrunches adorably in response.

“Hmm. You do have a point there…” She tilts her head and thinks for a moment. “I guess if I can't get a ride on your cock, I'd be willing to settle for a ride on your face instead?” She suggests, already crawling further up his body. “You do me and I do you?”

Gold cracks a shark-like smile. “...And people say negotiation is a lost art.” He deadpans as she dips down to meet him for a kiss. Being with Lacey is so intoxicating, kissing her so dizzying, that he suddenly thinks he understands why Milah was able to carry out an affair for so long, and have seemingly so little guilt over it. It's a sobering thought that’s quickly replaced by the realization that he must look like some sort of poster child for recently divorced men who have crises and start sleeping with women half their age— if for no other reason than to assure themselves that they've _still got it._

The train of thought is interrupted by a buzzing sound nearby. They stare blankly at each other until Gold manages a pointed glance at his phone where it sits idly on the nightstand. Lacey rolls her eyes and climbs off the side of the bed, fishing her own phone out of her purse.

“Ugh. It's my dad.” She scowls, setting the phone on the nightstand to continue its buzzing.

_Christ,_ she _is_ too young for him.

“You should answer it, dearie.” He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He's becoming a goddamned lecher. Perfect.

Lacey stares at the buzzing phone again and huffs. “I guess.” She groans, snatching it up.

“Hey, dad.”

A rambling, thunderous voice erupts from the speaker and Lacey pulls the phone a few inches from her ear until it stops. Gold closes his eyes and exhales deeply. Of course Moe French would find a way to ruin his morning.

“I’m _fine.”_ She grumbles, rolling her eyes again as she sits up comfortably in bed. “No. I'm… at a friend's. No. No. Yes, a _male friend_ — Christ, dad!” Lacey throws her head back and sighs. “We are so _not_ having this conversation right now! ...Dad? ...Dad. _Dad,_ I’m hanging up! Bye! Love you! Don’t forget to take your meds!”

Her father’s voice continues to ramble from the other end of the line until Lacey hangs up and tosses her phone back on the nightstand.

“Sorry about that.” She shrugs, crawling back on top of him.

Gold just chuckles weakly. “Nothing to apologize for.” Is it possible to mean something, but not feel it?

“Anyway…” Lacey nuzzles his neck again but it’s nowhere near as enjoyable as it was five minutes ago. _Fucking Moe French._ “We were… negotiating,” she says with a giggle before claiming his mouth for another kiss.

Gold tries to reciprocate— he _wants_ to—  but his mind is stuck replaying that phone call on an infinite loop. And then it hits him.

_Shit. Meds. Dr Whale._

In his ambitious mood the other day, he had accepted the 9:30AM appointment on Tuesday that just happened to have opened up. Gods, he's been drinking himself to sleep for _months_ without managing to do anything he regretted in the morning _half_ as much as this.

“Maybe we—” With a sigh, he breaks the kiss and pulls away, not quite meeting her eyes. “Maybe we shouldn't. Actually.”

Lacey fists at the sheets and pulls them up to her chin, covering herself. “Why not?” She asks, not quite looking him in the eyes.

He can think of about a dozen reasons why not.

_I’m old enough to be your father._

_I’m clingy and you’ll regret having ever slept with me at all._

_I still really like you and don’t want whatever this is to just be about sex._

_I don’t think I can handle another person getting bored and inevitably leaving me._

Gold presses his lips into a thin line for a moment and scoffs. “I… well, I—” He sits up and smiles at her, taking her hand in his. “This isn’t exactly what I had in mind when I promised you breakfast, is all.”

She narrows her eyes at him and smiles. “Sounds like a cop-out.”

He isn’t going to argue that.

_“C’mon.”_ He says, patting a hand on her bottom until she takes the cue and climbs off of his lap. He swings his feet out of bed and begins rolling the stiffness out of his ankle. “What do you like? Pancakes? Omelette? Toast?”

“Hmm… Surprise me?”

He looks over his shoulder at her, where she’s buttoning his shirt back up. “Something tells me it takes a lot to surprise you.” He teases. “But I’ll see what I can do.”

 

*****

 

Lacey’s actually feeling pretty optimistic about today. She woke up at 5:30 and couldn’t fall back asleep— but it gave her a chance to think about their encounter with Arthur last night, and she thinks she’s figured out why he got under her skin so quickly. She couldn’t care less when a guy like Keith hounds her because she knows he ain’t worth shit. But Arthur was a complete stranger. Wear did it mean if someone who had never even seen her before could say those kinds of things to her? Does it all just follow her around like a bad smell?

It doesn’t matter. Given another chance, she’d still knock that asshole’s teeth out, because he ain’t worth shit either. Arthur might have ruined her dinner with Gold, but she'll be God damned if she'll let him ruin her morning with him. Admittedly, she’s a little disappointed that she wasn't able to properly thank him for getting her off last night— but she's sure he'll mention it later.

The breakfast Gold is putting together definitely looks and smells better than Lacey's usual bowl of Cocoa Pops. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen anyone appear so in their element in the kitchen before. But when she tried hovering over his shoulder to watch, he kept insisting, “no peeking.” All she knows is that whatever he’s making, it involves a measure of bourbon, so it _has_ to be good.

When Lacey’s eyes aren’t fixed on Gold’s rear, they’re focused on his china cabinet. It really is a beautiful piece— when you pretend the glass isn't missing and the muntins aren't snapped and splintered. But moreover, there's the cutest little teacup sitting all by itself atop one of the shelves, and Lacey feels drawn to it. She wouldn't mind adding something like it to her own collection. It’s so dainty and delicate that it just might look perfectly rebellious sitting beside her assortment of irreverent novelty coffee mugs.

“Coffee's ready.” Gold calls out softly. “Black?”

“Mhmm.” She nods, watching as he reaches into one of the cabinets for a cup. “Hey— can I use that cup?”

He looks to where she's pointing and knits his brows together. “I… I guess.” He scowls. “If you like.”

“Cool.” She shrugs and carries it over to him so he can pour her a cupful.

“Just— be careful.” He warns. “It’s chipped.”

Lacey rolls her eyes. “I'm not _that_ clumsy, Gold. Just gotta drink from the good side, see?” She says, tilting the cup demonstratively. Gold just smiles and returns to the stove.

Fifteen minutes and half an orgasmic plate of bourbon peach French toast later, Lacey is in fact very clumsy.

Gold keeps staring at the clock and anxiously tapping a finger on the side of his coffee mug, and quite frankly it’s terribly distracting— ’It’ being the wonderful view she has of his sharp, angular profile and the hypnotic pulsing of the tendons in his hand. She’s debating whether or not to ask him what the fuck he keeps staring at the clock for (because honestly? How rude) when she takes a fateful sip from the wrong side of the cup.

Hot coffee dribbles down her chest and onto her lap and she yelps, nearly jumping out of her seat. _“Fuck!”_

Gold’s eyes snap away from the clock and he lunges across the table, rushing to take the cup from her hands and almost knocking his own over in the process. “What-what-what— Are you alright?!”

She looks down at the splash of coffee on her shirt— his shirt, his perfectly white shirt— and groans. “God dammit...”

He reaches a trembling hand out to her but withdraws it quickly before making contact. “You— you're alright? You're not burned?”

“It's fine. It’s not that hot.” She says, feeling herself flush with embarrassment. “Just… whoops?”

Gold sighs and shakes his head before finally scrambling for the roll of paper towels. “I-I'm sorry—”

“It's fine—”

“Let me get that—”

“It’s fine.”

“I am _so_ sorry.” He hastily tears a sheet off and moves to dab her chest with it but stops himself, holding the towel up in the air uselessly. “I-I don't even know why I still have that stupid thing—” He stammers.

“It's fine!”

“No, it’s _my_ fault.” He insists, and he sounds so angry with himself. He honestly believes it. “I should have thrown that bloody thing out with the rest—”

_“Gold.”_ She grunts, ripping the paper towel out of his hand and wiping the coffee off of her thighs. _“It’s fine.”_

His eyes dart frantically over her face while his mouth hangs open. He doesn't know what to do with himself.

“...I—I'm sorry?” He stammers again.

“Stop apologizing!” She snaps. “I'm over it, alright?! ...You can stop coddling me!”

Gold takes a half step back and stares blankly at her, his arms drawn tightly against his chest.

Lacey feels her face grow hot and her pulse starting to throb in her temples. Nothing says, _“I'm over what happened last night,”_ like screaming, _“I’m over it, alright!?”_ at somebody who's just trying to clean spilled coffee. So much for her 5:30AM revelation.

She shakes her head, closing her eyes and letting out a deep sigh. “I'm sorry, it just— I’m the one who ruined your shirt, okay?”

He knits his brows together in confusion. “...I never wear white.” He says matter-of-factly.

Lacey blinks at him for a moment. “What?”

He suddenly seems to notice the way she’s staring and his cheeks grow pink. “...What?”

“Nothing.” She shakes her head. “Just forget it, alright? I made the mess. I’ll clean it up myself. I can do that much.”

“You… you don’t have to.” He says meekly.

“Well, I want to, okay?” She sighs, swiping the roll of paper towels from the table and getting on her knees. “I’m not completely fucking helpless, you know.” She mutters under her breath as she soaks the puddle up off of the floor. Her lip is trembling though and she feels the urge to cry and just how fucking embarrassing is that?

Gold clears his throat. “No,” he says. “Of course not.”

In her effort to not bust into tears over spilled coffee, she can only manage a litany of snivels and huffs.

“You—” He cuts himself off and kneels down beside her and she wishes he wouldn’t because she knows it’ll be a bitch for him to get back up because of his ankle. “I don’t think you’re helpless.” He says. “You’re strong. Much stronger than I am.”

“Don't.” Lacey shakes her head. “You were right.” She mumbles, wiping her nose with her forearm.

“Right about what?”

“That I’m full of shit!” She says, tossing the saturated paper towel across the floor. “I said I didn’t give a damn what people think, but I do!”

He doesn’t offer any assurances to her right away, but she can tell he’s trying by the way his lips are pressed together.

“Of course you do.” He says and she rolls her eyes. “B-But... the thing— it— well—” He keeps stammering and she feels so bad because he’s trying so hard and she knows she’s hardly worth the effort. “I think it’s good to give a damn.” He finally says. “You have a right to be angry. And hurt.”

Lacey scoffs and shakes her head. “If that was true, they wouldn’t have punished you for it with anger management classes.” She says bitterly.

Gold huffs out a laugh.

“No.” She says. “It’s bullshit. People like us get fucked over by assholes our whole lives but when we finally say _fuck that, fuck you_ and stand up for ourselves, we’re the ones who get shit for it and it’s not fucking fair!”

“I know, I know.” He hushes. He takes her hand and rubs his gently thumb over her skin. The gesture itself doesn't do as much to comfort her as the realization that he's _trying_. That for once someone isn't just calling her a psycho bitch and running away.

“H-He talked about me like I wasn’t even there.” She snivels, wiping her running nose on her arm again. “I hate— I hate that, okay?! I fucking hate that!”

“I know,” he whispers, wrapping an arm around her. “I do too.”

Lacey's not sure whether she's talking about Arthur or Gerard at this point, or if they've just merged into one entity best defined as _people who've hurt me._ She buries her face in his chest and cries, and he just rubs a hand over her back.

“Shh… it's alright.”

It’s several minutes until Lacey calms down. She slowly untangles herself from his arms and wipes her cheeks.

“Better?” He asks, tucking a lock of hair away from her tear-dampened face.

She nods and takes a deep breath, staring back and the now dried puddle of coffee on the tile. “I just— I want to clean it up by myself.”

“Okay.” He gives her a weak smile. “I understand.”

Gold groans as he pulls himself off the floor, leaning heavily on the table to spare his ankle the stress. He grabs the cup again and carries it over to the sink to dump it. Lacey tears her eyes away from the floor at the sound of the coffee sloshing into the sink and babbling down the drain. He starts walking the cup over to the garbage can and she sighs.

“No.” She insists and he stops to look over his shoulder at her. “Don’t.”

“What?”

“I like it.”

“...What?” He asks again, and he's so adorably confused at this point that Lacey almost forgets to answer him.

“I like the cup.” She mumbles, climbing to her feet and taking it from his hands.

“You could have hurt yourself.”

Lacey's never seen somebody so distraught over the possibility of hurting her before, let alone so inadvertently. _Spilled coffee._ She spilled a half a cup of coffee and he went into panic mode. If she didn’t know any better, she might find it comical. But she _does_ know better, and it’s actually just really sad.

“Look.” She says softly. “This cup has clearly been through some shit,” she says, smiling weakly and holding it up for him to see. “But um, you can still drink out of it. ...You know?”

He looks down at it and opens his mouth as if to protest.

“I mean... we’re kinda chipped too.” She adds shyly, her eyes focused on the cup because she can't quite bring herself to meet his eyes. “People look at us the wrong way, or say the wrong thing, and they get a lap full of coffee.”

The uncertainty finally leaves his eyes and the corner of his mouth twitches upwards into a little smile. “...Or a foot up the arse?”

Lacey bites down on her lip, trying to fight the little giggle that wants to bubble out of her. “Exactly.” She traces her finger along the notch in the cup’s rim for a moment. “I’m just not ready to be thrown out yet. Are you?”

“No. I-I suppose not.” He places his hand over hers, his thumb brushing over her own where she's picking at the chip. “We'll just… have to rinse it out and try again, hm?”

Lacey nods. “Thank you.”

“Nothing to thank me for.”

 

*****

 

Gold insisted Lacey relax and make herself at home while he cleans the kitchen, so she hopped in the shower to wash the smell of coffee off of her body before changing into her clothes from the night before. She may have also sloshed around some mouthwash she found under the sink while she was looking for condoms to no avail.

She might still have some ruminating to do as far as that prick Arthur is concerned, but she's at least decided on one thing: she wants to sleep with Gold again— sooner rather than later, and she doesn't give a damn about whether or not she “should”. It’s different with him, she’s decided, because she actually _likes_ him. It’s as if the two of them speak a language together that no one else understands. When she gets upset and snaps, he has this look in his eyes like he knows exactly what she’s feeling. It’s not about thanking him or wanting to return a favor. He just makes her smile and feel good and she wants to make him feel good too. The other night in her bed he was so content and at ease and _she_ did that. Who says she couldn't do it again?

Having given up on raiding the bathroom cabinets, Lacey grabs her purse and plops onto Gold’s bed. She rummages through all of the compartments, then dumps all of its contents out in frustration. Her phone, her keys, some cash, several crumpled up gum wrappers and receipts from the liquor store, her favorite tube of lipstick, a tampon.

“Seriously?” She huffs, shoving her hand inside the bag again and groping at the now empty lining. Finally, something pointy pokes at her skin. Holding her breath, she slowly pulls it out, and she's pretty sure she can hear a choir of angels singing. “Oh, thank _God!”_ She says with a relieved sigh, tucking the little foil packet into her bra.

Gold's still finishing up when Lacey makes it back downstairs. She should sneak up behind him and nibble his neck, but for some reason she can't bring herself to. For some reason, she’s nervous about it. Instead she just watches him with a little smile on her face and a warmth in her chest until the last plate makes it into the dishwasher and he spins around. He smiles at her, but then he looks at the fucking clock again and Lacey feels her heart drop into her stomach. Has she worn her welcome? Does he want her to leave? Can she blame him?

“I forgot, I ah, I have an appointment.” He says, wringing his hands together. “I’ll… I’ll get ready and I can drop you home on the way?”

“Oh.” On one hand, it explains his sudden infatuation with the clock. On the other, it looks like she won’t be jumping his bones after all. “Yeah. Sounds good.” She says, and he gives her a tight-lipped smile before disappearing up the stairs.

Lacey finds herself pacing around the living room. Every surface in Gold’s home is crowded merrily with antique lamps, tiny metal ornaments painted with colorful patterns, and old books bound in worn leather. She cautiously picks up one of the pieces— an enameled candlestick holder— and marvels at all of its tiny details. There’s soaring dragons and blooming lotuses in pinks and reds and greens sprawling across a field of blue.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Lacey hurries to put it back down, almost knocking over a photo frame in the process. Gold is standing in the doorway— looking criminally handsome in one of his suits— and if the way he’s leaning against the frame is any indication, he’s been standing there for some time.

“I’m sorry, it’s expensive, isn't it? I shouldn't have—”

“No, no. You’re fine.” Gold hushes, walking over and picking it back up.

Lacey slowly turns to look at it with him.  “It’s uh, really pretty.”

“Cloisonné.” He says. “Technique dates back to the ancient Middle East. They solder this thin wire into intricate patterns—” He indicates the gold strokes that make up the design with his finger, “then fill each of the spaces— _the cloisons_ — with enamel and fire it. This particular piece is from nineteenth century China. Qing Dynasty.”

Lacey stares at it for a moment and wets her lips. Smiles. “Is that what the guy who sold it to you said?”

Gold huffs out a laugh. “You don’t trust my appraisal skills?”

She crosses her arms over her chest and narrows her eyes at him. “Well I mean, c’mon— how do you _know?_ ”

His lips slowly curl into a smug grin. “One simply must know what to look for, Miss French.” He says. He flips it over and taps a finger on the bottom of the base. “This here… is an imperial seal. Went out of favor at the turn of the century. Any pieces made for export after that time will say _China_ or _Made in China_ instead, so that dates it before 1897.”

Lacey blinks owlishly, trying not to look too impressed yet. “Okay.” She says, putting her hands on her hips. “I'm listening.”

“Now—” He winks and flips it over again to point at the thin wires that make up the shapes in the design. “If you look closely, the diameter of the wires is consistent. It doesn't get thicker in some places and thinner in others. Wrought wiring like this wasn’t used until the late Qing dynasty which, of course, was the last dynastic period before China became a republic in 1911.”

Lacey always imagined the only reason people collected antiques was because they were expensive and therefore a good way to show off how much money you have to other people who also have lots of money. But Gold is smiling brightly, dimples and all, and speaking with such a genuine passion for the history and the craftsmanship of the thing that she has no choice but to dispel the idea entirely.

In short, he's a total fucking nerd.

“You might also notice that these wires haven't been soldered at all.” He continues, holding it up to her closely. “Soldered wiring is usually riddled with imperfections— pits and dark spots, fractures from the baking process, that sort of thing. But during the eighteenth century, they started using an adhesive to lay the wire, which produced a much cleaner result like we see here.”

He’s speaking so confidently and as cute as he is when he’s a flustered, babbling mess, confidence is such a good color on him. “I have to admit—” Lacey says, bobbing her head thoughtfully, “I'm kinda getting weirdly turned on by this.”

“Ah, but there's more!” He beams. “Look at these areas of pink.”

Lacey squints at the lotus petals and frowns, not sure what she's supposed to be looking for. “Yeah, that's um… definitely pink.”

_“Precisely.”_ He says, holding a finger up in the air. “Prior to the Qing dynasty, they didn't use pink enamel. They would use white and red within the same cloison to create the _illusion_ of pink. Furthermore, the cloisons that form the dragons’ scales have a smooth gradation of color— another technique that wasn’t introduced until the 18th century. However, the scrolling design motif— the lotus in particular— is a trademark of the Ming dynasty.” He pauses and wets his lips. “You see, during the nineteenth century, the antique market was growing and there was a demand for pieces that replicated the Ming style. Paired with techniques developed in late Qing dynasty, a Ming design motif dates the piece quite firmly in the nineteenth century.”

“...Huh.”

“So.” He coughs and looks away shyly, a small blush rising to his cheeks. “That’s how I know.”

Lacey blinks at the piece owlishly. “...Cool.” She says with a chuckle, meeting his eyes again. “I mean, I guess it's kinda like how I can hear a few seconds of a Van Halen song and know what album it is judging by the way the guitars sound.”

He pouts thoughtfully for a moment, then lets out a little scoff. “...Aye. I suppose it is.”

“Or how you can tell a Def Leppard song from a Poison or a Whitesnake one?”

He sets the candlestick back down without taking his eyes off of her. “You'll have to enlighten me sometime.” He says, his head bobbling ever so slightly as he wiggles his brows.

“I will.” She grins, taking a step closer to him. Lacey can't think of anything she'd enjoy more than subjecting Mr Gold to her beloved, though in all honesty pretty shameful, record collection. They could order pizza, or takeout, or just whatever (she's not picky), and talk about things that aren't depressing— like her very strong opinions on what the top five guitar solos to come out of 1987 are. After all, she doesn't know the first thing about antiques, but she enjoyed listening to him talk about the history of Chinese cloisonné techniques anyway.

“You know, I uh, have some pieces from China too.” She says. “...Late twentieth, early twenty-first century?”

Gold raises a brow at her and the corner of his mouth twitches upwards into a little smirk.

“Really cool technique where they uh, make these molds and fill them with plastic?” She explains, trying not to laugh. “Allows them to produce hundreds of thousands of units that are _completely_ identical.”

He cracks a toothy grin and inches closer to her. “Sounds incredible.”

“Yeah, it kinda is.” She snorts, wholly aware of the light, bubbling feeling in her chest. “Not gonna lie.”

His focus darts back and forth between her eyes and lips, and they lean into each other almost imperceptibly. Lacey wets her lips and lids her eyes, wanting so badly to close the gap between them.

She feels his breath land on her cheek and she goes all in, because it’s all the invitation she needs. She catches his eyes going wide as she pulls him close, but he doesn’t hesitate to respond in kind with a little moan when she traces her tongue along his lips. His hair is still a little damp when she runs her fingers through it and he smells so amazing and tastes so good and Lacey’s certain she wouldn’t mind standing there and kissing him all day long. But when they finally part to catch their breath, there’s a strange, disorienting giddiness that keeps her from doing anything more than just staring and smiling at him— and judging by the lopsided grin on his face, she’s pretty sure he feels it too.

She shifts on her feet, her eyes fixed on the knot of his tie. “You uh, sure about that appointment?” She asks. “Maybe you should call in sick.”

“That’d be a shite excuse for missing a doctor’s appointment, Miss French.”

Lacey folds her arms over her chest. “The only _shite excuse_ I'm hearing is the one for that thing you call a sense of humor.”

He rolls his eyes, but smiles. “Says the woman who was just flirting with me over the mass production of consumer goods.”

“Well it worked, didn't it?” She laughs. “I think that says more about you than it does about me.”

“Fair enough.” He gives her a peck on the forehead, looking far too pleased with himself when she huffs and scrunches her face in response. “Now put those ridiculous things back on your feet,” he says, nodding toward her heels by the front door. “You're going to make me late.”

“Fine.” She giggles, traipsing across the floor for her shoes. “I’d hate for all of your anxiety this morning to be for nothing.”

“I wouldn’t say nothing.” He shrugs. “If there’s anything that makes me more nervous than a doctor’s appointment, it’s the company of a charming woman.”

Lacey snorts. “I think you’re full of shit.” She says.

But what she really thinks— or dares to hope— is that he isn’t.


End file.
